Another Sunny Day
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Miss Baxter wants to spend the day in York with Mr Molesley but he has a prior engagement (with his dad's garden).
1. Chapter 1

**This popped into my head while I was listening to the wonderful "Another Sunny Day" by** ** _Belle and Sebastian_** **. This is a series six AU/speculation/wishful thought, for miss-baxter because lately I've been promising the world in a fanfiction sense and consistently failing to deliver.**

The servants' hall was empty when she entered except for him, and one of the maids working on some mending at the far end of the table.

"Hello, Mr. Molesley," she said softly, slipping into the chair beside him.

He looked up from his book, evidently having been completely immersed in its pages.

"Good evening, Miss Baxter," he replied, sounding a little startled.

"Sorry," she apologised instinctively, "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You're not disturbing me," he told her, resting the book on the table, "Really, you're not."

"That's good," she replied softly.

They were quiet for a moment. Their silence was comfortable, and for a second she was tempted not to disturb it. She forced herself, however, to remember that she'd come to find him in order to ask him something.

"Are you having your day off tomorrow?" she asked him.

"Yes, I am," he replied, though somehow, she thought, he didn't sound very excited about it.

She'd thought it would be the case, they usually took their days off together, ever since their trips to York.

"I was wondering if you'd like to go to Ripon with me?" she asked him, "Or even York, maybe. For old time's sake."

He smiled at the suggestion, but still he looked as if something was bothering him. She frowned a little.

"Are you alright?" she asked him cautiously.

"Yes," he replied quietly, running his hand over his face, "I'm alright, Miss Baxter. Thank you for asking. But I'm afraid I can't come to York with you, much as I'd like to."

"Oh," she replied softly, "That's alright."

"You see, I've already promised the day to someone else."

She didn't know how to answer that, she didn't know what to think. Who else? her mind implored to know before she could put it in check.

"Really-…" she started to say, "If you're busy already, it's none of my business-…"

He evidently sensed that she'd got the wrong end of the stick.

"It's my dad!" he blurted out quickly, "He's been feeling under the weather lately and the garden's been getting into a mess, which only makes him feel worse. I said I'd go and see to it next chance I had."

"Oh," her heart rate was just about levelling out after the surge of irrational jealousy and then relief she'd just experienced, "I see."

She'd heard from Mrs Hughes that Joseph had inherited his father's green fingers, it all seemed to make sense. Only she'd been looking forward to the thought of spending the day with him.

"Would you like any help?" she asked him, "I mean, I'm not sure that I'd be any good," she explained, "I don't really know anything about gardens. But if you told me what to do I think I'd be alright, and I could keep you company, or see that your dad has everything he needs."

"It would be lovely if you did," he responded brightly, "I don't want to put you to any trouble, though," he amended himself a second later, perhaps realising how keen he'd just sounded.

"It wouldn't be any trouble," she replied swiftly, "I'd like to."

"Alright," he agreed, "That's very kind of you, Miss Baxter."

She smiled at him, getting out her own mending. When he picked up his book again she saw that he was smiling at the pages too.

 **…**

"What a lovely garden," she murmured as they reached the gate of the Molesley's house the next morning.

"He's a good gardener, my dad," he told her, "I can see what he means, though, it's getting a bit wild. He's got high standards, he won't like it if it's not tidy."

"He sounds like Mr. Carson," she told him with a smile, following him up the path, casting her eyes around at the rockery and the roses.

He laughed.

"There are similarities," he conceded.

He held the door open for her and she stepped inside the little house.

"Dad," he called out, stepping inside behind her and closing the door, "It's only me."

"It doesn't seem to be," came a voice from the far door, "Unless you've got a lot prettier since the last time I saw you, lad. And unless there are two of you now."

Old Mr. Molesley was standing in the doorway, his posture a little stooped and his eyes a little tired, but looking well apart from that.

"Hello, Mr. Molesley," she stepped towards him a little, holding out her hand to shake his, "I hope you're feeling a little bit better."

"I certainly am, now that I've got such nice company here," he replied, his eyes twinkling as he shook her hand warmly, "How one earth did Joe manage to persuade someone like you around?"

"Dad, this is Miss Baxter," Joseph stepped forwards, flushing crimson for some reason, "She's come to help with the garden."

"I know who it is, lad, I'm only having you on," he told him gently, and then, turning back to Phyllis, "I've heard so much about you, I wasn't about to get confused, was I?"

She smiled gently, placing at Joseph out of the corner of her eyes, who was looking very flustered.

"Dad, why don't you show me where the rake is?" Joseph said hastily.

"If you don't know where it is by now, you want looking at, lad."

"Why don't you make us a cup of then?" he protested.

"I can do that," Phyllis offered, "I know more about tea than I do about gardens."

"There you are," Mr. Molesley told his son triumphantly, "You get on with the garden, I'm going to have a cup of tea and a chat with Miss Baxter."

 **…** **..**

It was forty-five minutes later when she brought him a cup of tea out.

"Sorry," she told him apologetically, talking to his back as she approach him in the middle of trimming the hedge, "I don't think I've really been much help."

He turned towards her, wiping his forehead a little. His eyes brightened at the sight of the tea.

"I don't know about that," he told her, taking it from her gratefully, "I would have murdered for a tea a minute ago."

She smiled.

"Do you want to have a sit down?" she asked him, nodding at the little bench a few feet away, "You look like you've earned it."

"Good idea," he replied.

He sat down and she settled down beside him.

"He's nice, your dad," she told him a moment later.

"He hasn't given you the third degree, has he?" he asked her, sounding a little worried.

She grinned.

"No, he hasn't," she replied, "He was a bit on the curious side, that's all."

"I should have known he would be," he told her, "I'm sorry."

"I don't mind," she told him, "He was very kind. He says he's feeling better than he was in the week too."

"That's good," he replied, "I was worried about him."

"Yes," she nodded softly, "I could tell you were yesterday."

They were quiet for a few seconds.

"It was very kind of you to say you'd come with me," he told her softly.

She smiled, a little weakly, her head dipping a little.

"Like I said, I don't think I've been any help to you at all yet," she replied.

"You have," he told her, his voice soft and murmuring.

The tone of his voice made her look up at him. He was watching her very intently. There was a very tender look on his face that somehow both astonished her and did not surprise her in the slightest.

 **…** **..**

She noticed that he was more himself in the garden, he was more relaxed, he was very natural with his hands. She'd insisted on staying to help him, but she wasn't sure if she was actually being any more use here than inside. Truth be told, she'd spent most of the time fascinated by what he was doing, hoping he'd think she was only watching him in order to copy what he was doing.

They were over by the bed of roses, trying to tame the more unruly of the stems. He'd insisted that she have his dad's gloves, and was handling them with his own hands unprotected.

"Here," he told her, concentrating hard as he snipped one of the stems with the the clippers, "Have this one."

It was one of the best blossoms he was offering her, not one of the wilder, untamed ones they were cutting back. He'd taken the prime stem and just offered it to her. It was deep and lustrous and red.

"Won't your dad mind?" she asked him, hesitating for a second.

"Almost certainly not," he replied.

She had to admit, he had a point.

"I want you to have this one," he told her softly. His voice was tender and she heard the shadow of tremble in it. She imagined it was taking his a great deal of bravery to ask her this, to do this for her. It would be so wrong of her to say no.

She reached out, taking it in her gloved hand. His hand moved, instinctively, just a fraction, drawn to try to brush hers for a second and he inadvertently slipped over a thorn as he did so. His eyes widened in surprise and he hissed a little with pain.

"Are you alright?" she asked him, immediately extending her other hand for his.

"Yes," he replied, still allowing her hand to rest on his nevertheless, "It was more of a shock."

She could see the scratch, dark red but thin. It would probably be alright, even if it had broken the moment. There was no need to let it go to ruin though. She steeled herself, taking her turn to be brave.

"Here," she told him softly, tugging gently on his hand with hers, "Let me," bowing her head, planting a soft kiss on the tiny laceration.

The pad of his finger felt soft against her lips,

"There," she murmured, "That's better."

When she raised her head, he was staring at her as if she were an apparition from the high heavens. She was still holding the rose he'd given her in her other hand.

 **Please review if you have the time. I could do more, though when is a debatable issue at the moment.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I did a part 2, because I'm a soppy sod.**

The look on his face as when she had straightened up was enough both to unnerve her deeply and to assure her that she had done exactly the right thing. He was too taken aback for words, quite literally. It was a long few seconds, and then the whole thing risked becoming slightly comical. She allowed a smile to steal across her face.

"I might go inside and see how your dad is getting on," she told him softly.

"No!" he objected suddenly.

"No?" she asked, curiously, surprised by his vehemence.

"I mean, go, if you want to," he told her quickly, "If you don't want to stay out here with me. But I want you to stay. Here. With me," he clarified unnecessarily.

Her smile widened.

"I haven't made you uncomfortable?" she asked carefully.

"No," he replied firmly, "I liked it," he assured her.

She could not hold back a little bit of a laugh at that.

"Good," she replied, "I'm glad," she left it half a second before adding, not a little shyly, "I liked it too."

She was still holding the rose, touching the end of the stem tenderly between her fingers.

 **…**

They gardened in companionable silence for a while. The weather grew noticeably warmer towards midday, and she felt herself pausing to roll up her sleeves. The skin beneath them looked even whiter in the sunlight and she felt herself cringing a little at her pastiness, giving away that she was unused to this.

A few feet away from her, Joseph was digging out the weeds from the flowerbeds, his sleeves rolled up too, his collar unbuttoned and his shirt untucked. Woe be tied him if Mr. Carson even saw him that way, but Phyllis liked it. He was digging away quite oblivious of her. She could see how the muscles in his forearms tightened as he worked the spade.

Suddenly he stopped, straightening up, his face screwed up in pain, breaking her illicit reverie very abruptly.

"Jesus Christ!"

Quickly she put down her clippers, moving over to him to him.

"What's the matter?" she asked him.

His hand was in the small of his back.

"Muscle-…" he murmured, his voice short with pain.

She stood beside him, her hands extended towards where he indicated the pain was, wanting to do something, not knowing what to do. He took a few long deep breaths and seemed to relax a little.

"That's better," he told her a moment later, his hand leaving the place hesitantly, "It was much worse at first."

"Was it a sharp pain?" she asked him.

"Yes," he replied, "But it didn't last. I keep forgetting I'm not as young as I was."

"You're only 51," she murmured, wondering if he remembered that time.

The breathy laugh he gave told her yes.

She reached out her hand towards him, trying to find the place he'd been holding.

"Here?" she asked.

She felt him tense just a touch under her hand, but then relax a little.

"Just a little further round," he told her, "Yes, there."

She pressed the tips of her her fingers firmly against the spot he'd told her, trying to move in a gentle circle. He let out a quiet breath.

"How does that feel?" she asked him.

"Good," he told her, his voice soft and low, "Very good."

She worked instinctively, just trying what she thought would work, continuing to soothe her fingers over the spot.

"Oh, that feels good," he murmured, "That feels very good Phyllis."

She watch him with his eyes closed, smiling as her Christian name slipped past his lips without him even noticing. A few moments later she removed her fingers, resting her palm gently against the place. She could feel his muscles between his shirt and took a steadying breath herself. He straightened up a little, seeming to come back to himself a little.

He turned around to look at her, and she saw his cheeks were flushed a little.

"Maybe you should take a little while to recover," she suggested tentatively, "You don't want to hurt yourself by going back to it too quickly."

"You're probably right," he told her, "I'd best recover."

 **…** **..**

"Well, we're a right house of invalids today," Mr. Molesley remarked, looking at his son, lying flat out on his back on the settee, "I ask the the young-un for help and find he's in worse shape that me!"

"It was just a twinge," Joseph insisted, "Phyllis is just being cautious."

"By the sound of it _Miss Baxter_ is being very kind," Mr. Molelsey replied, stressing her name to make his son realise that he was saying it differently, just as Phyllis came in with a new pot of tea and a plate of biscuits, "Look, she's even brought us some more tea. Well, at least one of us is in good working order. Bless you, my dear," he told her, smiling as she brought him a cup over.

"No, don't bother," Joe told her before she could bring one to him too, "I'd better get up and get it myself or I'll be here for the rest of my life."

"Well, that would be a crying shame," she said softly to him, once he'd got up and crossed the room to her.

She only realised when he took his tea out of her hands that she'd held it closer to her body than she normally would.

"Did you make any progress, lad?" Mr. Molesley asked, "Before you collapsed?"

"He didn't collapse, Mr. Molesley," Phyllis told him, "It was just a twinge."

"He knows," Joe told her with a roll of his eyes, "He's only winding me up. I got two of the beds done. And Phyllis did a marvellous job with the roses."

She flushed a little.

"Oh, is that so?" Mr. Molesley asked, sounding impressed, "Do you know much about roses?"

"Nothing at all, I'm afraid," she told him in reply.

"Neither does our Joe," he told her, "But not let that put you off him," he added in a low, conspiratorial voice, giving her knowing look that made Joseph nearly choke on his tea.

 **…**

"I'm really sorry about my dad," he told her as they walked slowly up the path back to the Abbey, "He thinks he's the world's best comic."

It had turned out to be a lovely evening, the sky was still light and the air was warm. They were alone on the path, and the quiet around them was very comfortable, as soft as a feather bed.

She smiled gently.

"He can be quite funny," she told him fairly, "And he was very kind to me."

In her hand she was carrying a little net bag holding a tin of Mrs. Molesley's old sewing things he'd given to her, as well as a little book on caring for roses and, of course, her rose itself.

"I think he may have an ulterior motive for that," Joseph told her ruefully.

"Oh really?" she asked him curiously.

"He's always seen it as his business to be a bit-… flirtatious, shall we say, on my behalf. To disastrous effect most of the time."

She laughed quietly.

"Yes, I can imagine," she replied, "I'd much rather it was you who did your flirting."

She let that remark hang in the air for a moment before she looked at him. Again, he looked terribly startled, even more so when she raised her eyebrows at him a little. His pace faltered and he came to a halt. She stopped walking too.

"I want to know that we're on the same page," he told her after a moment, "I want to know I'm not reading all of this the wrong way."

"You want to know if I'm on the same page as you giving me the nicest rose I've ever seen, and letting me kiss your hand and then asking me to stay with you?" she asked.

He nodded mutely, his eyes a little alarmed at her frankness.

"Yes," she said simply, "I am."

The comprehension dawned so beautifully onto his face she was sure it kept the light in the darkening evening for a clear ten seconds. She smiled back at him. She was incredibly glad they were alone on the path. She put her bag on the floor beside her feet.

"Come here," she told him, holding out her arms for him.

He was there in an instant, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his lips tenderly to hers. She met his kiss, resting her hands on his shoulders and pulling herself up so enthusiastically that her hat fell off. Neither of them noticed.

 **end.**

 **Please review if you have the time.**


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